


Rescued

by MellytheHun



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Mild Language, Tumblr Prompt, mild injury description, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 21:12:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2888069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellytheHun/pseuds/MellytheHun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mad-Madam-M on Tumblr sent me this prompt; a drabble about one character saving another for sterek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rescued

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Stiles endures torture, but it's not written about. His injuries are pretty brutal, though.

Stiles screams from behind the gag, uselessly flexes his arms under the ropes tying him to the beam. His legs squirm under their binds and panicked tears stream down his face, combining with the sweat and ash gathering there. He throws his head back against the beam in fearful aggravation, bruising the back of his still bleeding head, watching the fire catch around him. He squeezes his eyes shut, his lungs stinging and feeling tight.

_I’m about to die._

_Oh, God._

_I’m about to die._

_I’m about to die._

The broken bones in his hands grind, rigid and jagged. He doesn’t really care about the pain in his broken hands, though. The open wound on the back of his head that’s gone untended to for hours pulsates with pain, radiates outward, but Stiles doesn’t really mind it. He’s got bruised and/or broken ribs, he’s fairly certain that the hunters that beat him before tying him to the beam caused internal bleeding and everything vibrates with agony. But he doesn’t even feel it.

All that’s on his mind is the way Lydia flips her hair and how he’ll never smell that shampoo wafting his way again. How Scott’s shoulders square bravely in the face of everything that makes him uncomfortable, from bowling to battle. The way his father’s smile spreads with pride. The feel of his favorite pillow under his sleep-warm cheek, the way sunbeams shine in the kitchen of his home, the smell of freshly cut grass, the taste of Mrs. McCall’s pink lemonade in Spring. Derek.

_Derek._

The way Derek’s eyes glisten and study closely, the way Derek’s throat swallows, the way his skin glows under the rays of the setting sun. How Derek’s long legs stride in time with his, how Derek’s brow and lashes set shadows along his cheeks. The way his voice comes intimate, low and excitingly dangerous, but so sweetly familiar.

That’s when Stiles hears a crumble and crash.

He whimpers from behind the gag, tears still running from his eyes and blood dripping like hot oil from his head, down his neck. The fire is crackling and spreading around him and the smoke has risen enough now that he can’t see the entry way to this basement. He assumes the sound was another beam collapsing. He makes a weeping noise, wanting so badly to be home, avoiding responsibilities or at school, doodling fangs on his looseleaf.

"Stiles?" He hears.

Stiles knows the voice anywhere, but it’s gravelly and petrified.

He screams with all the air left in his lungs and sobs, so scared that Derek won’t be able to hear him from behind the gag and the roaring flames. He watches the stairs and sees a shadow move behind a wall of fire. His heart rate kicks up, he feels a rush of hope wash over him like a tidal wave. He squirms again, not actively thinking about getting free or loose, but thinking he _must_ get closer to Derek.

Derek runs through the flames, covering his head with his jacket and rushing to him. When he’s standing in front of Stiles, he discards his flaming jacket on the floor before smacking out the flames licking at his jeans. He’s got soot all over his face, sweat dripping everywhere, his hair is mussed and his eyes are wild. He looks at Stiles with such relief, though. He removes the gag first and Stiles instinctively gasps in and starts coughing. Derek claws at the ropes and then shoves Stiles over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He says loudly, over the breaking and crumbling of another beam and part of the ceiling,

"You’re safe, Stiles."

And Stiles believes him, closing his eyes and absurdly mourning the loss of Derek’s leather jacket.

He opens his eyes and everything’s white and panicked. There are five people in scrubs fluttering around him, he’s being carted through a hall on a stretcher and then he falls back asleep.

When he opens his eyes again, his father is staring worriedly at him from beside a hospital bed. There are two different IV’s in him, his hands are bandaged and there are wraps around his head. He feels pleasantly numb.

"Derek saved me," Stiles says first, voice groggy and scratchy.

The Sheriff nods and says, “Yes. Yes, he did.”

Stiles smiles and blinks slowly, already falling back asleep, “I love him.”

Before he drifts off again, he hears his father mutter, “I know.”

The next time he wakes up, he’s much more aware of bodily pain and he complains as much. He’s treated for some low grade burns, his hands have finger-casts on every finger, bandages are wrapped around his forearms where he’d been slashed and the stitches on the back of his head itch something awful.

Scott, Lydia and Kira worry over him and spend almost all their free time in the hospital with him. He asks about Derek every time one walks in and he doesn’t get a straight answer until he’s three weeks into recovery and he whines to his father,

"I can’t believe Derek hasn’t visited!"

The Sheriff is looking over medical paperwork, not even sparing him a serious glance. He cocks a brow and says, "I certainly can."

“ _Dad_.”

"He loves you," The Sheriff says frankly, finally looking up to Stiles, "And he nearly lost you the same way he lost everyone else he loved. He’s probably terrified to see you, not knowing what state you’re in or how bad the burns are."

Stiles swallows thickly and looks at his broken hands. "That’s what the hunters said too. They kept saying he would come for me because he… but… he’s never…"

"He doesn’t have to," The Sheriff fills in, "Everyone can see it in his eyes when you walk into a room."

Stiles feels a warmth spread up his face and he asks, "Really?"

"Really," His father replies, "You should call him. Let him know you want to see him. He’ll come if you ask for him."

Stiles looks to his phone on the bedside table and asks, "What if he doesn’t want to come see me?"

The Sheriff snorts and asks, “When has rejection ever stopped you?”

Stiles smiles and takes up his phone and sends Derek a text.

For hours, his phone stays silent and still and eventually his father leaves for work.

It's late at night and he’s reading Heart of Darkness for his AP English Lit class when he hears the door squeak. He looks up, expecting Melissa.

"Derek," He says with a measure of awe.

Being away from Derek for weeks allows for this desensitization on Stiles, where he forgets how magnificent Derek looks in person. He becomes something like a figure in a dream and then Stiles will see him again, like this. Derek stands in front of him, tall and strong and glittering eyes and showered hair and soft cotton shirts and it just _hits_ Stiles.

"Sorry I didn’t…"

"No," Stiles says, shutting his book and leaning forward, "No, dude, it’s okay, I was — I didn’t even consider how triggering this could be for you and…"

Silence spills and Derek tucks his hands in his jean pockets like he’s nervous and it makes Stiles’ heart flutter. He swallows a bit loudly and then mentions quietly,

"I was thinking of you."

Derek quirks a brow and Stiles loses his confidence, looking down at his scarred fingers. "I thought I was going to die and I was thinking of you. And when you just — you came barging in and running through fire like a fucking hero -"

Derek snorts with sour humor. Stiles looks up at him again, shaking his head,

"And you left your jacket."

Derek sits down on the bed, looking at the healing bruises along Stiles’ forearm. He says softly,

"It was my dad’s."

Stiles’ brows furrow and his eyes get glassy with guilt. He says, “Shit,” under his breath and Derek shakes his head.

"It’s okay. I thought I’d feel terrible, but I feel fine."

Derek stares him in the eye and adds, “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Stiles remembers that moment of looking back at the beam he’d just been untied from, bobbing over Derek’s broad shoulder, feeling saved. Believing that, with Derek there, he would never be hurt. Derek’s hand comes to cup his cheek gingerly and he rubs his thumb there. His kaleidoscope eyes glisten reverently and he mutters, as if it were a thought meant to stay in his head,

"I got to you in time."

Stiles clasps his hand over Derek’s and leans his face into Derek’s palm. He smiles and agrees,

"Yeah, you did."

Derek leans in, rests his forehead against Stiles’ and Stiles takes the moment to look deeply into Derek’s eyes. The angle is intimate and equalizing and there are circles under Derek’s eyes, telling Stiles that he hasn’t slept for all his worry. There is a fog in the wild colors of Derek’s eyes, explaining to Stiles that Derek has thought of nothing but him for all these weeks.

And there’s something else there.

A sparkle, a movement, a current that Stiles has never seen in the eyes of someone staring at him before.

_He loves me_ , Stiles knows.

He tilts his head welcomingly and Derek doesn’t hesitate to close the space, kissing him sweetly, rescuing him all over again.


End file.
